Gothel
by AceTrainerMitsy
Summary: I was ugly. I would look at my mother's old mirror, the long one with the large crack from when she had pushed it over in a fit of drunken rampage, and stare at myself for hours on end. Drabble, Gothel-centric


A/N: So this is something I wrote for homework. The prompt was "Write a famous story from another character's point of view". And I wasn't supposed to make it this long but I couldn't help it and boom five pages. :D

It's not perfect, like I don't think Gothel sounds like herself and I haven't seen the movie in a awhile, so I probably got some stuff wrong, but I'm real proud of it.

xXOXx

_Gothel_

xXOXx

Mother was never there for me.

Father was a working man, a merchant who traveled around. As an expectant little girl I expected that she would seriously take over as my sole guardian. I wanted to be hugged, kissed, sung to, tucked into bed by warm, welcoming arms and gentle fingers. I just wanted to be taken care of.

But mother was a drunkard, a slimy, crass drunkard who never came home walking straight. Every night I would fix her remedies and nurse her back to health, only to have her be gone until the next night.

And the next night.

And the next night.

Until she never came home.

...

I was ugly.

"Oh her," the other girls would say at the market. "The weird girl with the droopy eyes and funky hair down the way. Don't talk to her, she's not pretty."

I've never even done anything to them. I was never tempted to seek revenge on them just because of their narrow-minded upbringings and rude comments. I wasn't on their level, and I wouldn't dare stoop to it, not even for the sick satisfaction of seeing their perfect little eyes brimming with tears. No, that would make me one of them.

And they were right.

I would look at my mother's old mirror, the long one with the large crack from when she had pushed it over in a fit of drunken rampage, and stare at myself for hours on end. Staring at my bird's nest of black hair. The shadows under my cheekbones. The way my shoulders seemed to sag unevenly n either side. The way my eyes were too far apart and my hands were bony and disgusting.

I was disgusting.

...

I didn't want to take it.

I saw the life-giving flower in my teenage years, when I was out searching for a few berries to add to my dinner. It stood out in a field of daisies, rising up and seemingly beckoning for me to come closer.

I've nearly convinced myself that I was out of it. Of course I was—I'm sensible enough to keep myself from indulgences. But I was so, so tired, so _sick_of being frowned upon by society. I wanted to be more. I wanted acceptance. I wanted to be one of them.

I touched the flower, feeling myself grow stronger, taller, curvier. I remember looking at myself in the pond, with glorious hair, prominent cheekbones, eyes just at the right places, a body to rival the queen's! It was wonderful.

I felt terrible.

I hid the flower so no one would find it, not to keep it for myself. People began to love me, and my beautiful appearance, and I was accepted. The flower was a gift, and I was worried that if such an item were found, they would take it away, take my life away, and use it for themselves. I knew I was lying, but I came back to the flower everyday, changing the hiding spot, and restoring my beautiful youth.

I was living in a lie, but it felt freeing to me.

...

And they took it away.

They took it away and handed it to the queen—_the queen_, of all people—and it killed me on the inside.

I saw it. I was on my way to go check it too, and move it to a new place, but when I got there, the knights were at the mouth of the cave, scooping the fragile flower in their hands. I saw them howl in excitement, climb on their horses and ride away.

I felt it. The strain of maturity and adulthood hit me like a sword to the heart, tearing at me insides. I changed back into me, into pathetic Gothel, right there in the brush.

I decided right there I needed to change pathetic Gothel into strong Gothel.

Mother Gothel.

.

I snuck past the guards. Figured out the layout of the castle by running for hours on end. But I was desperate. I couldn't live like little Gothel anymore. So I pressed on, running and running until I found the royal baby chambers.

I didn't want to hurt the child. I had hoped that cutting some of her hair would provide me with enough to stay young for the rest of my life, because this sweet, sweet child didn't deserve to be taken away.

But it didn't. The magic left her hair as I cut it off.

Maybe it was the magic. Maybe it was the rising pressure. But I snapped.

I took the baby with me.

.

I felt guilty.

I locked us both in a tower, where neither of us would have to be near the mean people anymore and neither of us could get hurt ever again.

I would still stare at the mirror in my room—the broken one I saved from my house—and look at myself, my beautiful, strong self.

I had a daughter too. I never had a loving, caring mother to guide me through life, but Rapunzel deserved it, so I stayed to nurture her, spoil her, lavish her with care. Everyday, I would stay behind to restore my youth—it hurt on the inside every time—but Rapunzel didn't mind.

I thought she didn't.

But she wasn't happy. The girl was born wild, and she wanted to explore new places, new people, new life. I couldn't let her go. It was dangerous out there. So I tried to distract her by feeding her passion for art, risking my own ridicule to go out and satisfy her. And it did, until her sixteenth birthday.

She disappeared.

I chased her relentlessly, feeling the magic wear off with every step I took, reminding me that I needed this, but she needed it more, and I was doing it for her right? What if she found her mother? What if she led them to me? What if I couldn't get to her in time, and the magic killed me before I even had a say.

The poor girl was delusional. She was clouded by love, and didn't see the darkness around her, even when I found her, and told her and begged her, "Please, come home." Back then, I thought she understood. She came back to the tower with me.

She went to her room. Then she yelled at me. She came right out and yelled at me, calling me a liar, a terrible mother, a terrible person.

I panicked. I locked her would be happy together. We could live together forever, and be happy all by ourselves without the world judging us or hating us or separating us, because I loved Rapunzel, and she loved me.

That thief, that troublesome thief, he just had to ruin it all.

The dagger slices through her hair.

.

I feel my lungs crushing the air out of me.

My heart beats slower, slower, _slower—_

My skin wrinkles and crumbles—

My hair turns an ungodly gray—

I stumble backwards, and feel something scrape against my ankles and suddenly I'm falling

falling

f

a

l

l

i

n

g

Rapunzel, dear, I love you.

Then darkness.


End file.
